Constellations and Conspiracies
by cosmic.catastrophe
Summary: Post-S01E10, Jane and the team work to untangle the web of conspiracies obscuring her identity, past, and the vast conspiracy involving Orion.
1. Chapter 1

Silent and Cold

* * *

Jane hesitantly stepped away from the vehicle, adjusting her scarf, bundled haphazardly around her neck, pulling her hat down against the bitter wind. The snow and ice were patchy on the dull brown of the cemetery grounds, the dirty gray slush blending seamlessly into the bleak sky.

Kurt walked around the front of the SUV, joining her on the sidewalk. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his substantial Carhartt coat, chin tucked against the turned-up collar. She'd talked him into pulling a knit beanie on as well, despite his arguments that he was nigh _impervious_ to the bone-deep chill. Blue eyes peered down at her inquisitively, eyebrows raised, a bright contrast to the monotonous sky.

Taking in a deep breath, she nodded at him. "I'm ready," she rasped, coughed, and cleared her throat. "I'm ready." Returning her nod after scrutinizing her to be sure, he turned, and she followed him into the cemetery. Her stomach twisted into knots. What would she feel, when they arrived? Would another memory strike her like lightning? Would a heavy dread descend? Or, almost worse, would she feel _nothing at all_ , no connection whatsoever?

Her boots crunched on the path, covered in a mix of ice and salt. She let her eyes wander over the various family crypts and statues of angels, lichen-stained black and pitted from exposure. Her thoughts darted back to the last time she'd found herself in a cemetery; sprinting, dodging bullets, and desperately clutching a deadly canister of radioactive death. This time, though, there was silence, peppered only by the occasional creak of a tree swaying in the frigid air.

Jane followed Kurt closely, feeling nervous and exposed, out of place. Though the wrought iron gates had been swung open for the day, they were the only ones there on the hallowed grounds, alone in the vast silence of the rolling hills and winter-stripped trees, bare save the stray ice-strewn evergreen. She can see her breath puffing through the scarf, the air searing her lungs with every polar inhalation.

Just when she'd started to wonder if they'd _ever_ arrive, cold seeping into her coat, he pivots from the paved path, onto the dead grass. He turns back to her, silently offering his hand, which she gratefully accepts. Despite the insulated pockets of her coat, her hands had become stiff and cold. The warmth of his hand, enveloping hers, seems to drive the chill from her entire body, moving gradually throughout as if she were lowering herself into a steaming bath. He tucks their clasped hands into his pocket, to her secret pleasure; her unease seems to dissipate as she clings tightly to him.

Kurt's voice is gentle. "She's right here, Jane."

She can feel his eyes on her as her breath catches, taking in the gravestone before them.

 _Emily Malvina Shaw_

 _1960-1997_

 _Beloved daughter and mother_

It was simple and rectangular, unadorned. The marble was pure white, still pristine despite the years. It stood alone, nearly a foot and a half tall, unconnected to any other family plots.

"Malvina?" is the only thing that comes to her mind. Kurt laughs softly.

"I, uh, looked it up. It's traditionally Scottish, as is Shaw. I didn't know her grandparents, but I was told that they were immigrants to Pennsylvania," he explains, the detail betraying the casualness of his reply. Pleased, she feels her cheeks heat, and she looks away, smiling into her scarf.

The elephant in the room, lying between them, unmentioned, is the possibility that Jane's not even Taylor Shaw at all; yet still, she appreciates the time he's devoted over the years to this, the obsession over Taylor Shaw's disappearance, trying to bring closure and absolution to not only _her_ family, but his own. And closure to _himself,_ most of all. She stands silently, considering.

"No other family here?" Jane dares to ask, at last.

"No, Jane, I'm sorry. I don't know where Emily's parents or grandparents are buried yet. There seemed to have been some kind of rift in the family...there was hardly any contact between them and Emily, after…" trailing off, he mumbles something almost to himself, looking away, kicking at a chunk of ice melded to the grass.

She nudges him, wanting to roll her eyes. "What? Come on. After _what?_ You can tell me."

His eyes edge toward hers; he sighs. "After _you_ were born, Jane. _Taylor_. There seems to have been some family drama, but I don't know what. There's…no one alive anymore to tell me the truth."

Her gaze falls back upon the lonely marble headstone as she sighs heavily, breath coalescing and swirling around them. She pulls a slim, bare hand out of her other pocket, slowly reaching down to rest her fingers upon the smooth, glacial marble.

"I'm…I'm sorry,' she whispers, unabashed. "I wish we had answers for you. I…wish we had closure." But, there are still more questions than answers. Still more mysteries than open books. Still plenty of work to be done before the book can be closed, and before, Jane feels, the dead can truly rest. She pulls her hand back, now numb, and moves to stuff it back in her pocket. Reluctantly, she pulls her other hand free of Kurt's, turning toward him, clearing her throat. "I think I'm ready." Her voice is barely above a whisper.

He captures her numbed hand before it meets her other pocket, bringing it up to his warm lips, breathing life back in. Both of his hands swallow her own, slender and cold, warming with his touch. His eyes bore into hers, needing to be certain. "Are you sure, Jane?" he matches her soft tone, voice low and rumbling.

"I'm sure," she replies, squeezing his hand as he clasps hers to warm it, tucking it in the other pocket. They walk silently back to his SUV, lost in their own thoughts, the quiet broken only by the clattering of the trees and the crackling of their strides on the salted, icy path.

He's remotely started the vehicle, and it's started to struggle valiantly with an output of warmth by the time he opens the door for her, helping her in. Tires grumbling against the snow and slush, he then pulls away from the cemetery, heading back to his childhood home.

They'd come down to Pennsylvania almost on a lark, on the anniversary of Taylor's mother's death. Kurt had mentioned it, haltingly, when he'd caught her in a private moment after work, as she prepared to head "home" for the evening, in the locker room.

"I'll go," she'd blurted, unthinkingly, staring him down until he'd acquiesced. They hadn't quite resolved their issues after his injury and her earlier lies…or, _selective disclosure_ , as Dr. Borden coined it…concerning her torture and experience at the CIA black site. That hesitation, however, was overridden by the urge to know more about her theoretical family, were she indeed Taylor Shaw.

Kurt had grudgingly agreed to take her, more so as a manner of honor, feeling the weight of his responsibility to the unsolved case from his childhood. He'd driven them down into the dark, encircling hills of Pennsylvania, ending up in a tiny town past its coal-mining heyday, starting to show signs of neglect and disrepair. He'd pulled up to the car park of a small, tidy 50s-style house, which seemed to be preserved, untouched, since the 1980s, on the inside.

"My parents' house, back in the day," he'd explained shortly. He directed her to the guestroom, giving her a brief tour of the compact house. Jane could hardly pry her eyes away from the family photos on display, young Kurt grinning in so many; his hair longer and dense, accompanied by a blonder, freely smiling Sarah.

They hadn't stayed up late that night, Kurt making an excuse about being exhausted from Friday's workday, and the drive. Jane, not yet tired, had wandered the house, studying every photo on the wall and shelf, trying to build a fuller picture of Kurt Weller in her heart and mind.

She'd woken up to the irresistible scent of his cooking in the kitchen, as he made biscuits and gravy from scratch. Notes of fresh coffee had woven through; shuffling into the kitchen, she'd poured herself a cup, black, as she'd leaned against the counter, hair mussed from sleep, in a hoodie and oversized pajama pants.

He'd greeted her noncommittally, grunting as he collected the biscuits and gravy into serving bowls, pulling dishes and silverware from various cupboards, methodically stacking them on the countertop. Wanting to help, setting aside her cup of coffee, she'd reached to receive the dishes from his hands, but instead found herself pulled abruptly into his arms, pressed against the counter, as his mouth crushed hers.

He'd lifted her up onto the counter, strategically clear of the food, and she opened her legs to pull him in closer almost instinctually, eyes startlingly level with his. She ran her hands up his back, lingering on the firm muscle and shape. He pressed closer to taste her, as if outside his conscious control, unshaven cheeks and chin grazing hers as he explored her thoroughly.

She gasped as he pressed a trail of kisses down her throat, but joined him in laughter, breaking apart, as they both startled when the bread exploded from the toaster with a _PING!_

Catching their breath, cheeks flushed, they'd eaten their hearty breakfast in comfortable conversation, Jane asking Kurt about his happy memories in this house. They cleared the table together, Jane painfully aware of his presence, and every brush of skin; but she nor he pursued their connection further, now feeling the emotional weight of their upcoming visit to the cemetery.

Their cemetery pilgrimage now complete, he drives back to his childhood home like a man on a mission, singularly focused on making his way safely through the snow and ice. Jane slouches in the passenger seat, thankful for the meager warmth now pouring through the vents, eyeing both Kurt and the tiny town as he drives. She tamps her urges and emotions down, sensing that Kurt is more rattled than she as they enter the house, stomping the ice and salt off their boots onto the entry mat.

They hang their coats and outerwear, kicking off their boots, and she follows him to the master bedroom, making her move as he turns back toward her. She wordlessly embraces him, absorbing his warmth into her still-chilled body. He stiffens for a millisecond, but then turns, melting into her arms, pulling her down onto the bed, sighing with relief and satisfaction as he draws her closer. " _Fuck_ ," he mumbles wholeheartedly, encompassing the entirety of their late morning/early afternoon.

She soothes him, smoothing his shirt, running her hand through his hair, and down the tense muscles of his back. She has nothing more to offer him than her presence and warmth, in his parents' home, the very air heavy with the past. "You'll be ok. I'm here. I'm here," she murmurs. He sighs gratefully, pulling her close; and she figures that, for the moment, it's enough.

* * *

Written per the tumblr BSHiatusFics prompt of "Gravestone". Much love and thanks to takethisnight-wrapitaroundme, countryole, and charmingnotdarling for this brilliant idea..we're only a couple weeks away!

Love and squeezes to the Blindspotters squad and fandom...you guys are truly the best, and most welcoming. 3


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 

* * *

Tasha Zapata's blood is thundering in her ears as she speeds past Kurt, striving to appear coolly unperturbed. She needs to dispose of her resignation letter, and quickly. Not to mention the bug and scrap of paper accompanying it, the slashingly-scribbled words threatening, " _Last chance."_ This is another chance for _her_ , a fresh start, thanks to Carter's grisly death.

She'll have to worry about any further repercussions later, Zapata concedes, striding to the industrial-strength paper shredder. He wouldn't want to incriminate himself, either, so she figures the possibility of Carter somehow openly documenting their exchanges is low. Relief spreads through her like a balm as she drops the letters, bug included, into the shredder teeth; the grinding and whirring sounds are music to her ears.

Her reflections are interrupted with a start when she feels a presence behind her. She whirls to face Reade, his eyebrows raised as he hands her a coffee. It's black, as usual, and she takes a grateful sip in lieu of an explanation for her being on edge. Reade being Reade, though, he is not one to let an opportunity for a jab go to waste.

"Late night, Tash? I left around 6, and you were still at your desk," he comments innocently. "You must be tired…you're a little jumpy."

"I'm going to put a bell on you," she counters. "After the scene this morning, I am _not_ in the mood to play." He shakes his head in agreement, falling into step beside her as they make their way to Kurt's desk, where he is already focusing intensely on what must be the incident report from their wild morning.

"Jane's at medical with Patterson, and I'll need your input for this report by noon," he commands tersely by way of greeting. Reade and Zapata share a sidelong glance, eyebrows raised.

"Good morning to you too, Kurt," Zapata drawls, leaning against his desk. "So what's your take? How the hell does one end up in a five-star CIA establishment, surrounded by bodies, to include that of the Deputy Director?" She smiles blandly at him when he glares.

"We should find out soon. Jane should be nearly done at medical with Patterson," Kurt responds, lips pressed in a grim line as he looks back at the screen. He is certainly taking this personally. Though he'd be upset had this happened to any other member of his team, Zapata reckons, Jane's kidnap and torture is pressing _all_ his berserker buttons.

Tasha had confronted Kurt about it a few months ago, on their mission to Michigan and Saúl Guerrero. His choice to take Zapata instead of Jane into the forest, and subsequent non-answer had confirmed, in Kurt-speak, that Jane was _definitely_ more than an FBI asset to him. In fact, Tasha had money on it, after relaying the conversation to Reade once Jane had pulled her extraordinary-as-usual stunt of flying the team out the battle zone in the planted helicopter, cool as cucumber under fire.

After they'd locked up Guerrero, Reade had sighed at Zapata's disclosure, closing his eyes briefly as if in prayer. "I sure hope Kurt knows what the hell he's doing."

Tasha had nearly guffawed. "Ha! He's probably going about it with all the grace of a bear. Can you imagine? He's not exactly Mr. Sweet and Romantic."

"I don't even _want_ to think about it, Tash," Reade had griped, turning to accompany her to Mayfair's office for the debriefing. "As long as he keeps his focus on the team and the mission, I don't care what he does. She's not a fellow agent, at least."

"Twenty bucks says he goes for it before Christmas," Zapata smirks, eyes sparkling with the challenge.

"Double or nothing, my money's on _Jane_ making the move," Reade counters smoothly, eyebrow arched. Zapata's eyes narrow. He may be on to something, as Jane has a small habit of regularly surprising them all, but she won't back down.

She'd shaken his hand. "Done."

At Kurt's desk, Zapata and Reade exchange another look. Kurt is testy, but they all need to work together to reconstruct the events of the previous night and this morning.

"Jane's detail has confirmed that, after she returned from headquarters yesterday evening, she turned in for the night. Her disappearance wasn't noted until the anonymous tip was called in this morning, and she wasn't found to be in the safe house. There was no sign of a struggle," Reade offers, sipping his coffee, adding dryly, "I imagine she'll have a new detail soon."

At this, Kurt seems to gather himself up uncomfortably, heaving a deep sigh. He doesn't make eye contact with Zapata, nor Reade. "She went back out last night," he mutters. The two agents whip toward him, almost comically agog.

"She, ah, came by my place," he grumbles. Tasha works to scoop her jaw off the floor, brain buzzing and ready for rapid-fire queries and teasing, but, ready for this, Kurt quickly clarifies, "Out front, on the sidewalk."

Reade has schooled his voice and expression to be carefully neutral. He doesn't meet Tasha's wide eyes as he asks, "What happened?"

Kurt sighs again, and Tasha notes that the tips of his ears appear to be flushed. It's like watching a fascinating documentary, observing their ever-stoic team leader squirm and shift, flustered. She has _never_ seen him like this before.

"She, ah, just wanted to talk," Kurt offers unconvincingly. _Talk, my ass_ , Zapata is certain. She and Reade don't have a chance to press him, however, as he suddenly stands bolt upright. They turn to see Jane coming toward them down the hallway, accompanied by Patterson. Kurt motions toward the nearest conference room, and the entire team pours in.

Jane looks haunted, though in better shape than earlier that morning; Patterson radiates compassion and empathy; Reade is concerned, though focused, and Zapata imagines that she appears much the same. Kurt is fairly vibrating with emotion barely kept in check.

"Jane," he addresses her gently as they take their seats. _"What happened?"_

Jane's eyes are unfocused as she haltingly begins to speak, but her voice is firm. "There…were at least three of them. Men, about my height or taller. All in black, wearing masks. I tried to fight them, but there were too many…they pushed me into a white cargo van. I must have been drugged, because the next thing I know is that I'm waking up to Carter looking down on me."

"He's taunting me, asking me all kinds of questions. What's your name? Who are you, really? What do you know about—" she shakes her head, searching for the memory. "—What do you know about Daylight? And of course I don't know. I don't know anything!"

Her voice rises in pitch, she's obviously rattled. Patterson, seated next to Jane, pats her hand sympathetically and nods in encouragement. Jane blows out her breath and nods in return, continuing, "He tries to drown me a few times, because he doesn't like my answers. And then I'm starting to think that I'm going to lose a few more teeth, because after that, I can hear a drill." She laughs humorlessly.

Kurt is a study in rigid self-control, knuckles white as he crushes the armrests in a death grip, the only outward sign of his torment. He dips his chin in acknowledgment, and Jane continues, looking at her hands, now gathered in her lap. "Then I heard gunshots, and someone coming down the stairs, and more gunshots nearby. That must have been when Carter was hit, because he didn't come back. I was pretty sure I was next, so I was trying to free myself, but I was spared. I don't know why. I couldn't see what was happening, or who my rescuer was."

"The next thing I know, you guys are there to save the day," she concludes. "How…did you find me?"

"Someone called in an anonymous tip. Seems like your 'friends' from before have been watching you, Jane," Kurt explains gruffly. "We owe them our thanks." Jane smiles nervously at this. His shrug is nearly imperceptible. "At least, that's my theory, anyway. Evidence didn't come up with anything solid yet, and our… _counterparts_ have taken over the scene." He resists the urge to say anything further about the CIA and their abominable activities, knowing that only inchoate rage lies in that direction.

His phone buzzes, and Weller rises to his feet. "Mayfair," he comments, nodding at Reade and Zapata to continue interviewing Jane. "We need every detail." Jane's gaze follows him as he strides from the room, phone pressed to his ear, voice too low to follow the conversation. She can't help but feel a twinge of disappointment when he doesn't look back.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 

* * *

Upon his arrival to Mayfair's office, she directs Weller to sit. She raises her eyebrows, gaze sharp, and begins without preamble. "Well?"

"She was outnumbered, pushed into a van, and drugged. Our favorite CIA… _former_ CIA deputy director seemed to believe that she knew more than she's letting on, and set about questioning her, using his preferred methods. She didn't see who shot Carter. Shortly after that, we showed up," he summarizes, certain she already had the gist of it.

"Do you believe her?" Mayfair asks coolly, as if suggesting that perhaps he should not.

He bristles in response, ready to argue, leaping to Jane's defense. "Yes, of course I do. Why shouldn't I? Do you know something I don't? She's been a capable member of this team—"

Mayfair interrupts him, tone of voice unchanged, a humorless smile on her face. "You may want to keep that 'professional distance', Weller, and have a good look at the crime scene photos and case details before you make any assumptions."

"What are you trying to say, ma'am?" Kurt responds stiffly, moving to stand and exit. Mayfair doesn't answer his question.

"She wasn't in her safe house at the time, was she? There are some good agents that will have to answer for that. Don't let your feelings cloud your judgment, Weller. There are many moving parts here, and connections we haven't yet seen. I need your eyes and ears to be wide open as we put it all together," Mayfair directed, ignoring Weller's discomfited shifting.

"That includes having an unbiased look at our mysterious tattooed 'consultant' to see how her past may fit in to all this. Someone else has been watching her, and decided to come to her rescue, right under our noses. Why was she allowed to return to us? Did she know this person? Was he the same individual that called in the tip? Was this person a current or former ally?"

She paused, fingers steepled under her chin. "Is my point clear, Weller?"

"Yes ma'am," he responds evenly, jaw set.

"Get that report on my desk," she commands, dismissing him.

"Yes ma'am," he repeats, gritting his teeth, exiting. He grumbles to himself as he heads toward his desk, sweeping his coat off its hook and shrugging it on. He needed to get out of the office for a little while, clear his head, and do some thinking by himself before going over the photos and details. How was it that Mayfair already suspected or knew Jane had been in his vicinity when she was kidnapped? Was his fondness toward the tattooed mystery woman that apparent? Mayfair insinuating that there was more than what met the eye, at the crime scene…unbelievable.

But she was right…he had to _emotionally_ back away from the investigation on this one. He _was_ too close. He _did_ care entirely too much to maintain a clinical distance. Besides, he and Jane had tried that once, and the misery wasn't worth it.

Not like he was worth anything to her, anyway. The guilt and anger were nearly overwhelming, and he could hardly focus, the self-accusations floating wraithlike through his mind. Why hadn't he offered to walk her back? They would've been more evenly matched against multiple opponents; they had proved at Dotcom's bash that they fought well in concert, hadn't they? Why didn't he offer to drive? The kidnappers could have then been avoided completely.

Distracted, moving on autopilot into the elevators, he noticed too late that Jane was a on a beeline toward him, slipping in just before the doors closed.

"It's not your fault," she blurted out before he could react. His eyes met the startling green of hers, slightly rimmed with the tired red of having had no sleep, and his heart jumped involuntarily. His entire body was suddenly overly aware of her close proximity, as if the very air was charged.

"Jane, no," he tried to argue, weakly. Could she not feel the guilt and despair emanating from him? But she was having none of it. "You were the one kidnapped and hurt. Don't worry about me."

"It's not your fault," she insisted, voice soft, stepping closer. "I can take care of myself, you know that. And who's to say it wouldn't have happened anyway, at some later time or place? I went to your place all by myself, with no issues. It wasn't the first time I'd been out by myself, either…no problems or kidnappings then."

Despite himself, he could feel the corner of his mouth lifting. "You know, Jane, you're really not making me feel better, knowing that this wasn't the first time you'd slipped your detail," he shook his head, the disapproving tone lightened by his expression.

She smiled shyly in return, and he fights the urge to take her in his arms, as the elevator has almost made its slow, rattling way down to the basement parking garage. "Where are you headed?" he asks instead.

"I'm supposed to meet up with my detail down here, to be taken back to my safe house," she responds, masking her relief in his change of subject. "I've been ordered to go get some sleep."

She follows him to his SUV, as the detail had not yet arrived. He glances up at the security cameras scattered throughout the garage, calculating, losing an internal battle. "Jane, stand _right_ here." He gently pushes her up against the side of the SUV.

"Why—" she only has time to utter a syllable before his mouth is on hers, the length of his body pressed to hers, radiating heat through their clothes. Her knees are weak, but pressed between the vehicle and solidness of his body, she's not going anywhere. His right hand cradles her face, thumb skimming her cheekbone, and his left arm is propped against the door as he leans down to kiss her thoroughly, with an intensity not present in her earlier gentle, searching kiss (was it only last night that her world had been upended, in more ways than one?). She gasps, pulling in a shuddering breath as his mouth moves to the curve of her neck, his beard tracing a line of fire down her throat before moving to ravage her mouth again. She runs her hands up his chest and clutches at the lapels of his coat, hanging on for dear life.

He pulls away when they hear the sound of an oncoming vehicle moving through the garage, resting his forehead against hers as they catch their breath. "I'm glad you're back safe with us, Jane. …One of these days we _won't_ be interrupted," he adds, voice low. She shivers with anticipation at the intent in his words, feeling instantly bereft as he steps away.

"Get some sleep," he orders her as she turns toward her detail's SUV, pulling up near the elevator. "See you tomorrow." He offers her a lopsided grin when he realizes when and where he'd last heard that phrase, and is gratified when she quickly turns to shoot him a flushed smile in return, biting her lower lip as if to resist it.

Collecting himself, Kurt nods at the agents in the driver and passenger seats, striving for a suitably businesslike expression. He's unable to tear his eyes away until Jane climbs into the backseat, shutting the door securely behind her.

He finally opens the door of his vehicle, sitting down heavily, closing his eyes as he leans against the seat back. His heart is still racing, nerves jangling. What the _hell_ was he thinking? He had acted like a man possessed, kissing her, whispering promises in her ear. He was the lead agent on her case, which had turned into a clusterfuck of epic proportions overnight. She'd been kidnapped and tortured, on his watch; on top of escaping from the protection of her detail and safe house…slipping out to _kiss him_ , as if he was worthy of such a thing. And then the CIA black site. And Carter, dead.

Kurt's thoughts would not fall into order and precision, as if he was hungover or drugged. He shook his head, trying to dispel the chaotic mix of desire, guilt, and anger, and drove out of the parking garage.

He ended up parked outside his own apartment, but didn't go in. Drawn by the masochistic need to see for himself, Kurt strolls to the approximate location where Jane had been taken. The hedge is only slightly disturbed, the sidewalk clear. No blood had been spilled, no sign of the desperate scuffle that had taken place just last night. Last night, while he'd been upstairs with Sawyer, safe and warm, grinning like an idiot as he left Jane a voicemail to make sure she'd gotten home safely. Idiot, indeed. How could he have been so irresponsible?

Lost in his thoughts, he doesn't notice the white cargo van driving slowly down the street, a tree-tattooed man at the wheel, watching.


End file.
